The Guinea Stamp (9 page)

She thought of the note which he had left for her, and wondered how it would read now, by the cold, disillusioning light of early morning. She could soon put it to the test: it was still reposing in the reticule which she had been using last night.

She unlocked the door of the parlour, picked up the pail, and placed it outside the passage. She would have preferred to carry it back to the kitchen, but dared not, for fear of encountering any of the domestic staff on her way. This done, she returned to her room.

The reticule was still lying on her dressing table. She picked it up, and pulling back the drawstrings which held it fast, thrust her hand inside. A puzzled expression came over her face.

Yesterday evening when she had been interrupted in the parlour, she had pushed the letter hastily into the top of her reticule. She had not opened the bag since then, therefore there could be no reason why the paper should not be the first thing which came to hand. But it was not.

Impatiently, she emptied all the contents out on to the table.

At any other time, she might have been amused by the objects which she had managed to collect. A small toilet box, a hinged ivory fan and a pocket handkerchief with her initials embroidered in one corner she might have expected to see: but how had she acquired a piece of court plaster, a length of blue ribbon and a pink rosette off a shoe? There was, however, no piece of paper.

Captain Jackson’s note had gone.

She sat down to consider this disconcerting discovery. It was obviously out of the question that the paper had fallen out of her bag. The drawstrings were too tight for that. No, the only possible theory was that someone had deliberately taken it.

Who would do such a thing, and for what purpose?

After a second’s reflection, she dismissed the notion that it had been one of the servants. Most of them were country girls, who could not read, and the note could have no meaning for them. Besides, even if there should happen to be one among them who was dishonest, she would surely look for something of more value than a letter.

Try as she might, she could fix upon no one except Captain Jackson himself who could possibly have any interest in taking the note. It was not impossible to think of reasons why he might wish to recover it. He could not be sure that she would not show the paper to Sir George, and it was always possible to identify handwriting. Yesterday evening, he had seemed extremely anxious to avoid a meeting with Miss Feniton’s host. Perhaps he was already known to the magistrate?

How exactly he would have found the means to take the letter from her reticule, she could not determine. The bag had been on her arm most of the evening after he had so abruptly left the parlour, although it had lain on the dressing table while she had talked with Kitty after everyone else in the house had retired. It had also remained there while she had been downstairs this morning. Was it possible that Jackson had contrived to re-enter the house during one of these short periods? There was no saying.

Wearied of mystery, she stood up, debating what to do. There must be some way of finding out more about the man Jackson, but what? Would it be of any use to poke about in the vicinity of “The Waterman”?

She seized upon the idea eagerly. She remembered having been told in the past that there were some cottages and a small farm situated down there on the river, beside “The Waterman”. At this time of day, the cottagers’ wives would most likely be found out of doors, drawing water from the well, or feeding their handful of livestock. It should not prove beyond her powers to enter into a trivial conversation with one of them. If there had indeed been mysterious doings at the inn last night, she ought to be able to glean some gossip concerning the affair. She might even learn something more of Captain Jackson.

She went to the wardrobe, and took from it a warm pelisse and red velvet bonnet and a pair of fur lined half boots. She donned these garments hastily, then opened a drawer and found her gloves. She glanced at the clock. It was just turned six.

As she was walking downstairs, she decided to leave the house by the French window in the parlour. She must first, however, ascertain that the officers had departed on their journey. It would never do to give Captain Masterman further reason to suspect her of furtive behaviour. This time, he might feel impelled to take more positive action.

Outside the parlour door, she came upon one of the housemaids: The girl was staring thunderstruck at the pail which still stood there. She started violently at Miss Feniton’s somewhat stealthy approach.

“Lawks, ma’am!”

“I’m sorry if I startled you, Polly. Can you tell me if the gentlemen have already left the house?”

The girl paused to collect her wits before replying.

“ ‘Tis a queer ol’ mornin’, ma’am, an’ no mistake, what wi’ pails gettin’ up an’ walkin’ on their own, an’—”

She broke off, evidently realizing that she had not answered Miss Feniton’s question.

“Yes, ma’am, they went not five minutes agone—did you want to speak wi’ them, ma’am?”

“No, it’s of no consequence,” replied Joanna. “I wonder, Polly, could you possibly procure me a cup of hot chocolate? I am minded to take a stroll before breakfast.”

The girl looked at her doubtfully. Evidently she considered that one more odd event had been added to the morning’s score.

“You’ll pardon me, I’m sure, ma’am, but bain’t ‘ardly the weather,” she said. “Where shall I bring you the chocolate?”

Joanna indicated that the parlour would suit her very well, and Polly departed, wondering what other freaks of fate awaited her during the course of the morning.

Hardly more than ten minutes later, Joanna was making her way through the kitchen gardens to a gate which opened on to the lane running down to the river.

There was a high wind blowing, but she was sheltered from it in the lane by reason of the high banks set on either side. She made her way downhill carefully; the track was rough and stony, and she had no wish to end her adventure with a ricked ankle. At last she reached the end of the lane, and came out to the plot on which stood the buildings. The inn was nearest, and she surveyed it carefully.

It appeared to be deserted, although a wisp of smoke was coming from its chimney. She walked on past it, until she came to the farm. Here, too, was no sign of life. On its other side, were two cottages which she could see at a glance were derelict. Disappointed, she turned her attention once more to the farm.

It was surely strange that there should be no one about? At this hour of day, the countryside was usually full of activity. It had simply never occurred to her that she would not meet some worker, male or female, down here. She was momentarily at a loss. She had no wish to knock at the door of either place and ask questions, and for the life of her she could think of no good excuse for rousing these people. Such an action would cause comment, and give rise to gossip which might reach the ears of the family at the big house. Her questions, when put, must be casual-seeming, certainly not anything in the nature of an interrogation.

At one side of the farm was a slipway giving access to the river beach. If she walked along the strip of shingle at the river’s edge, she should be able to see into the yards at the back of the buildings, and might perchance spy someone working there. A civil good morning ought to pave the way for her questions, carefully put. She could think of nothing better to do, and took her way down to the river.

As she stepped out on to the beach, she again became exposed to the full force of the wind. A sudden unruly gust tugged at her bonnet, blowing it on to the back of her head, and considerably disordering her dark curls. She put up her hands to right it; but a second, more violent gust tore at the fluttering ribbons before she could reach them. In a moment, that expensive creation of an exclusive Exeter milliner went whirling through the air.

Miss Feniton made a grab for it. It eluded her, landing flat on the water, and skimming neatly along on the surface like a child’s toy boat. It was only a few feet from the edge: she looked about her for something with which to recapture it, and saw close at hand the fallen branch of a tree. She seized this with an involuntary exclamation of satisfaction, and at once began to fish for her property, the light of the sportsman in her eye. Several times, she almost had it, but a shift of wind would carry it out of reach again. Becoming more determined as her efforts proved unavailing, she also became less cautious in her movements. A final desperate lunge with the stick succeeded in impaling the bonnet, but brought its owner stumbling forward into the water.

With difficulty, she managed to keep her balance, and so avoid measuring her length in the river; but her half boots, stockings and the lower part of her pelisse and gown were soaked. At first, she disregarded this, grabbing the bonnet with a little cry of triumph, and casting the stick away from her into the river. Then realization of her plight came swiftly, causing her to grimace in dismay. Carrying the sodden, useless bonnet in one hand, while with the other she raised her dripping skirts, she moved back on to the dry shingle, her boots squelching unpleasantly at every step.

She paused irresolutely, and looked about her. She could see into the farmyard, but the place was deserted, save for some scrawny hens scratching disconsolately in the mire. She sat dawn upon the stones, and, drawing off her boots, proceeded to empty the water out of them. While she was donning them again, she paused to consider what her next move should be. She had no desire to return to Teignton Manor in this plight, quite apart from the discomfort of the lengthy walk back in wet stockings and footgear.

Obviously, she must apply at the farmhouse for the means of drying her garments. There was sure to be a woman about the place somewhere, and she now had the perfect excuse for knocking, and demanding to see a female. Her small accident might yet prove the best means to achieve her ends.

Heartened by this thought, she made her way with difficulty up the slipway, and to the door of the farmhouse. She knocked loudly.

There was no reply. After what she considered a reasonable pause, she knocked again. She shivered as she waited, for the wind was whipping her wet garments about her legs, and her head was bare. When she still obtained no reply, she seized the knocker once more and beat out a veritable tattoo upon the door.

At last, she was certain that there was no one there. The house wore an aura of emptiness, difficult to define, but plainly perceptible. She was wasting her time in knocking.

Disappointed and by now chilled through, she turned away, and walked down with slow steps to the gate. It was then that she noticed a tumbledown cottage standing quite isolated in the far corner of a meadow opposite the farm. She looked more closely: at first, she judged it to be derelict, but she soon noticed a trail of thin smoke issuing from its chimney. Evidently it was inhabited. Should she try there for help, or at the inn, which was nearer?

A second’s reflection provided the answer. She recalled what had been said by the two officers of their reception at the inn, and decided that the landlord would scarcely be more welcoming to an unaccompanied female than he had been to the Volunteer forces. It would take a little while to reach the cottage, but surely there she could hope to find a homely body who would make her welcome to a seat by the fire until her clothes were dry?

She at once set out for her objective. Her steps were necessarily slow, owing to the weight of water in her boots and garments, and to add to this, she soon discovered that the meadow was marshy. Her feet sank frequently into deep mud, having to be withdrawn again by considerable effort. She did her best to select the drier patches, but soon gave this up, as it involved making a considerable detour, thus placing the cottage at an ever increasing distance.

With grim determination, she plodded her difficult way along, until she had approached to within thirty or forty yards of the place. She stopped for a moment, then, surveying it critically.

She was obliged to ask herself how anyone could ever live there. Most of the windows were boarded up, through lack of glass: one only, like a small eye in a large head, reflected light from a watery sun. The roof required rethatching, while the walls seemed to sag around a battered door that was a stranger to paint.

There could be no doubt about the smoking chimney, however. Someone did indeed live in the place, for a fire burned; and although she had noticed similar signs of life at both the inn and the farm, surely not all the inhabitants of this particular area could be abroad on business of one kind or another this morning?

She hurried forward. The ground was firmer here, and she was able to cover the remaining distance quickly. Breathing somewhat rapidly, she knocked upon the door in an imperative manner.

There was no immediate reply, but she had a distinct feeling of being overlooked. She glanced sharply at the one unboarded window. Somewhat to her surprise, it was closely curtained in a piece of dimity of noticeable cleanliness. The discovery pleased her, for she fancied that here she detected a woman’s touch.

She moved nearer, trying to peer into the room. Her view was effectively screened by the curtain, but she thought she could make out a shadow which moved behind it. She scarcely paused before knocking again, this time impatiently. By now, she was unable to control her shivering, for her feet and legs were almost numb with cold. It flashed through her mind, even in the midst of such discomfort, that she must look more than a little dishevelled.